


hiding in the wheat

by vicen_non



Series: Beyond Expiration [2]
Category: Dreamtale - Fandom, Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dreamtale (Undertale), Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Demigods, Dreamtale AU, Dreamtale Nightmare Sans (Undertale), Dreamtale Sans | Dream (Undertale), Fallen Angels, Gen, Morally Ambiguous Dream, Multiple Plots, Old Gods, Uncorrupted Dreamtale Nightmare Sans (Undertale), Untagged, characters unadded, for the Mystery, not many tags for spoilers, personal rendition of dreamtale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:28:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25735066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vicen_non/pseuds/vicen_non
Summary: Dream massacres the village once he finds out about their treatment of Nightmare. He creates a plan for the two of them, to die together and become a single, radiant deity. Together.It all goes downhill from there.
Relationships: Dream & Nightmare, Sans & Sans (Undertale)
Series: Beyond Expiration [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1737121
Comments: 9
Kudos: 59





	1. to kill an angel

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is mostly character exploration imo so have fun

Nightmare distantly acknowledges the ground cracking beneath them both. He vaults himself over Dream as his brother tears through the air with a snap of his staff. Like a snake, his leg snaps out, and Dream drops to the ground.

This battle is wrought with sentiment, and while he would normally manipulate it; move around it like water, he wanted nothing to do with the subject in question.

"We were supposed to ascend together," his brother crackles below him, wide yellow eyes aglow with corruption. He could see it, winding through his face and his arms, like roots drinking off of his lifeblood. The transformation was beginning, Nightmare notes, and Dream continues to rant. 

"You matter so much to me," Nightmare doesn't flinch. "You mean  _ everything  _ to me."

Nightmare races for the high ground, as the grass tears beneath Dream's bare feet, and the ground crumbles around him. Breaking their oaths was the last he would expect from Dream, but he always knew that power and knowledge came hand in hand with destruction. Unfortunately for him, Dream possessed only two-thirds of that equation, and Nightmare wanted to be part of none of it. 

He forces his unwilling, heavy legs to continue his mad dash up their grassy hill, up their picturesque knoll in the middle of nowhere, where the sleeping gods laid their heads to rest and died. He did not want to become one of them, nor did he want to fully arise as one. Dream obviously sought differently, and his mind raced as he tried to think of ways to keep his brother from assimilating him into his despair-ridden state.

Behind him, there was a bellow, in that familiar tone Dream would always use when Nightmare purposefully tipped him over the edge. The only difference was that Dream was out to actually kill him this time. Nightmare decides the aid of his newfound limbs would help him crawl up the hill better. "If we become gods, there will be nothing left to stop us! No one would hurt you ever again, and I would finally be able to protect you!"

He was still trying. Nightmare throws open the front door and vaults over the stairs to their shared space, ignoring the still warm apple pie on their table, and the slices half-eaten on their plates. He ignores the tapestry and its embroidery, woven by himself, hung over their bed, and the unkempt side of it where Dream slept. Instead, he wraps his shaking, cold hands, around a familiar farming scythe he'd only use for wheat, and gives himself three seconds. 

Three seconds, he thought to himself. To muster up the courage to cut his brother down.

In those three seconds, counting down the too long and too short moments between him and his brother, Nightmare rewinds himself back to the morning. Waking up entangled in their worn sheets, and with Dream’s stupid hand in his face. There was no trace of this betrayal in the tranquility of his expression, Nightmare thinks, as he stares at the bed. He was peaceful, and then he wasn’t, and it all went literally downhill from there. 

Nightmare didn’t understand what the reasoning was behind this. He knew Dream, inside and out, and they were blood and bone as they were two halves of the same person. He knew Dream always held an especially protective streak for him, but when he learned of what the villagers had been doing to him all his life, Dream lost his composure. Of course he would, it was horrid, but it wasn’t bad enough to warrant a  _ massacre.  _

(Was it? 

Seeds of doubt tore through his chest, and he shook them.  _ Death was not an acceptable fate for children _ .)

That day, just yesterday, Dream sat a moment longer than usual. He always did that when he was thinking too hard about something. Nightmare sat with him, because he listens to Dream, as Dream does for him. But Dream was off. 

_ “I can’t believe they would do that to you.” Dream’s food laid untouched in front of him. Nightmare figured he’d down the entire meal within the next second, but he didn’t eat that night. _

Nightmare winds bandages around his knuckles, just as he used to do when they got ready to spar. He fumbles, once, twice, then a third time, and curses aloud with his rough voice. He drops the gauze by his feet, and Nightmare feels a scream build in his chest.

_ “It’s not that bad,” Nightmare weakly protested. Dream’s eyes snapped to him, and Nightmare nearly flinched back. He was glaring at Nightmare. Dream has never done that. Swift, and to the point, Dream corrected him. “I will not stand them treating you like that. I will not stand anyone treating you like that.”  _

With one hand bound and the other clutching a simple scythe, Nightmare tried to think of what the hell he’d need in a fight against a demigod. 

_ His chair scraped back from the table, and a fleeting thought crossed Nightmare’s mind. Would Dream strike him? But he quickly sent that thought off. Dream paced the dining room, his footfalls rhythmic, even as his mind was turbulent - like cutting waves against a seashore. “They never showed this side when we were together in the market, but I should have known. I should have seen it. I should have done something about it, anything, I should have known they would do this.” _

He throws open the drawers and searches through the wrapped up envelopes and his pages upon pages of fiction, before finding it. His medallion. Dream hated this thing with a passion, and always said it felt horrible to touch. When Nightmare wore it, Dream said it burned to touch him. It was his gift from their Mother, the one who made them, whose death made their bodies. They never understood why she would give him a medallion that would separate him from his brother, that would turn the masses against him, but now he understands.

_ Nightmare has manipulated villagers before. He’s twisted them against one another, seeing every little bad thing inside of them, and cradling it in his freezing fingers to let them rip one another apart. It has had horrible conclusions, and the incident has never left his mind. They are not fully innocent at all, but he has hurt them. Telling Dream that, now, would only seem like he’s trying to defend them. So he doesn’t.  _

_ He is self-serving, he knows, but he does not see Dream in the person pacing the floor. He sees something else. He sees Mother. _

The house’s air is cool and crisp, falling to fill the spaces between his ribs, and he wonders where his brother is as he gulps down breathes to prevent his panic from gulping him down. Then, he hears the sound of wings, and fear quickly takes the place of air. He throws the medallion around his neck, cursing faster now, chanting even, and wishing that he took the time to mend the hole in his damn shirt last night before his battle against an angel.

Nightmare has never tried to do this before. He has never tried to manipulate his brother, he has never brought his freezing, cold fingers into his scalding soul and turned his anger at anything, but he searches - and he cannot find anything to work with. Dream is blinding, Dream’s soul blinds him and melts his hands, and he cannot turn his brother. It hurts him as well.

The roof caves in, and Dream laughs. 

Many normal things have come to inspire fear in him, today.

Dream, however, is no longer ‘normal’, and Nightmare strains to look at his brother now.

There, he stands in front of him, in their room, bright enough to light up a cavern. Behind him, there are several pairs of wings. They are horrible, and they make him nauseous to glance at. Nightmare hates listening to Dream talk sometimes, but when he opens his mouth and the words come out, Nightmare cannot help but pay attention. His voice is suddenly too loud, like a bell, and it resounds in his mind, their mind, like a thousand songs all at once, harmonizing in the most horrendous song of destruction and paradoxical despair. 

Dream’s eyes flash, golden, a burning orange, and then white. He watches the colors change, fire trapped in a familiar body, and they set the floorboards aglow.

_ “Take off the necklace, Nightmare.” _

He doesn’t even need to give his refusal. Dream presses on, breaching his privacy, breaching the mental boundaries between them both. Nightmare feels a deeply-buried, sharp fury slide through his marrow, and he breathes. It comes out as smoke.

Golden ichor drips from Dream’s eyes and his nose, falling onto the floorboards. It’s thick like blood and sap, and bleeds into the cracks between the wood. His words boom louder, like a howling wind in Nightmare’s head, filling the empty spaces between letters and disrupting his thoughts.

_ “You’re being childish.” _

Nightmare steps back from him, keeping his eyes off of Dream’s pleading but manic expression, the way that his wings have folded behind him to keep their glare from blinding him, and his outstretched hands. Dream glows from the inside like those paintings of gods among mortals, and Nightmare cannot bear to look at him. That was the body of his brother, filled with… filled with someone else. That couldn’t be him.

He runs, and he skips the stairs, because with these new limbs on his back, he doesn’t need stairs in a chase. Dream follows behind him, close, as usual, and Nightmare throws the table down to the floor to stall. The plates shatter on the floor, and Dream yells his name, but he keeps running. 

The long grass slows his feet, so he tears through with whatever else he has. The writhing appendages that broke through his ribs form into spider legs, and he clambers away from their birth home, from the hill and the mountain and the trees, and takes cover in the forest.

Dream’s wings will take him into the skies, so he cannot be in the open. If he must, Nightmare frantically thinks, he will hide in the caverns, underground. It will be incredibly painful for his brother to find him down there, because the night harms him in ways Nightmare never would. But for Dream to force a golden apple on him, a forbidden fruit that would literally kill Nightmare to eat, he must take equally drastic measures.

Even now, crawling through the trees and over roots, he apologizes to his brother. In response, he feels his brother’s fury, his grief, and his pleas. There are no words or thoughts between them, but only feelings and images and memories. With their boundary broken, a dam overflows, and emotions crash against each shore. Nightmare tries to hastily rebuild it, so he can hide away, before Dream digs his burning hands into Nightmare’s mind to tear the answer of his location from him. 

Dusk will fall soon to the night, and Nightmare knows that Dream has little time left to search for him now. Even with all the glow that he puts off, Dream cannot be in the dark. He will extinguish, and become a magically preserved corpse until day arises again. Statues, Nightmare grimly remembers as he clambers over a dead animal, became very nauseating after learning that. Nightmare has a similar condition to the daytime, but clinging to his brother abated the pain of heat cracking his bones. Their sacred grounds, the land which their home was built upon, was a sanctuary from this rule.

Was.

Nightmare finds the cavern which he lost his brother in, another day, another lifetime ago, and he throws himself inside. 

His back aches and burns horribly from the usage of his new limbs, like a muscle overworked. Nightmare ignores the pebbles that get stuck in his feet or the rocks he trips over. His ribs choose this time to send searing pain through his chest, and occasionally, he heaves from overexertion, because he never had to run this much from a mob. The house was never that far away from the village.

The darkness is unveiled by his peering eyes, appearing through a tinted filter. He misses cracks in the ground, ignores the dust that covers his toes, and presses on. He goes deeper into the caves, squeezing through small spaces, and is lost in the maze.

Long ago, he ventured this cave with his brother, holding a bright, bright lantern. That was Mother’s gift to Dream, his lantern, so he could venture the night with his brother. But Dream, Nightmare supposed, did not have much use for that now. He was brighter than that lantern, even if it did feel so comforting to be near. Nightmare secretly wished he could do the same with his own gift, but his touch left the lantern extinguished. 

Done with his reminiscing and too tired to keep going, he stops in a familiar location, unaware of the golden threads slipping through his thoughts.

Exhausted, he collapses against a boulder. It hurts, the dirt getting into the huge hole in his back, but he doesn’t try to move any more. His entire body is thrumming with magic and with fear, and his heavy breathing is the only thing he can hear in this empty cave. 

Nightmare finally lets a sob rip through his throat, and he shrieks into the darkness, unheard. Warmth begins to thread through his arms and his back, and he cannot help his involuntary reaction to curl into it. Dream’s empathy, his pity, and his regret slip through to him, even with his frantically built wall, and Nightmare does not cry.

He refuses to cry, but someone continues to wail in this cavern with him.


	2. creeping, crawling into the crevices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> uh oh

Nightmare’s mind floats in a familiar, grand landscape full of floating papers and books. Each page has a fiction to weave, a wonderful world to lose himself in, and he has written each of them himself. He adores his fiction, because the inspiration is driven by ordinary places turned magical. The townsfolk do not believe in the old gods sleeping in their fields or the spirits that flit through the forest, but they believe in witches and monsters. Each place in their village is so disappointingly drab and mundane, so Nightmare enriches the cold wooden structures with life on paper.

Unfortunately, he cannot distract himself with mythology or stories of lands far away right now, because Dream is inescapable, and he is in Nightmare’s library. A memory swallows them both, as dreams tend to do when you sleep, and Nightmare despairs.

_ An arrow whizzes past his head, landing in the trunk of a tree. Nightmare leaps over a protruding root, trying not to cry, as he is hunted. “Get him!” Someone screamed.  _

Nightmare cuts off the memory before it can go further, before it can spark further pain in his back, but it is too late. 

Dream’s expression sours. It makes him afraid.

_ “I killed them all because of what they did.”  _ Dream cut through his thoughts.  _ “I did it for you, because you are too weak to cut them down.”  _

Nightmare tenses at the reminder, and a shadow is cast over Dream’s expression. He uncurls from his defensive position to move away from him. Hurt radiates from Dream at the move, and Nightmare begins to hurriedly try and rip through the haze of sleep to return to his body. 

_ “I know what they did to you. I know everything, now, and once I found out, there was no other option.”  _

Nightmare feels cold. Ice, like a stake, slides through his ribcage and into his soul. “There were kids, Dream.” He whispers, his voice suddenly hoarse. Those words brung him too close to reality, and now he was on the ground with Dream, his body aching with exhaustion. Dream was advancing, and he could not run away any further.

Golden eyes become understanding, but they are an echo of the warmth that used to cradle Nightmare. They are no longer comforting. 

_ “I killed them so that they would not have to live without a family.” _

Nightmare feels sick.

“Your mind is twisted by the apples.” He chokes out, the caved in face of a small child parting through his eyes. The building twists, and the candles extinguish. Dream recoils, before knowing he is safe here, because this is their mindscape, and the darkness is Nightmare. 

_ “The apples opened me to knowledge you are not yet privy to.”  _ Dream reaches out to brush a tear away. Nightmare couldn’t bring himself to stop him, because he needed him, he needed Dream’s comfort more than anything in the world, because Dream was his sanctuary more than their home or the blankets.

“Don’t.” Nightmare cracked, pushing his hand away with arms too weak and heavy to stop him. Dream obliged. “Don’t touch me, I don’t want to see you.” 

His brother radiates hurt, before it flickers into rage, then frustration, though his voice becomes a quiet plea. Nightmare shifts backward, and Dream only takes steps forward to cage him in.

_ “I’m only trying to help.”  _

Nightmare’s own fury lashes angrily inside of him, where he keeps it bottled up. Dark roots begin to drink away the color from the world around them beneath his feet. Dream warns him of this, but Nightmare does not care for the words of a murderer. His reasons become weak, because of Nightmare’s tears, and he feels the seeds of doubt sow themselves in Dream’s chest.

_ “We could be safe.” _

He ignores that.

_ “We could finally go outside together, at night.” _

Nightmare glares up at Dream, finally looking at him, and inwardly despairs that Dream’s eyes have been nearly consumed by gold. “We could already do most of those things.” Nightmare hisses. 

“There is no need to put me through the pain of death and rebirth. Didn’t you cherish what we have -” His breath hitches. “- what we  _ had _ ? What use is it to try and push forward to gain something that is only going to bring us further pain?” 

Dream appears briefly torn, and Nightmare can feel him conflicting against himself for the clear display of distress he has caused him. Good, the roots murmur to him. It is deserved.

Taking advantage of the weakness in Dream’s front, Nightmare pushes back. “You are a murderer,” he croaks. He repeats himself, because it is clear that Dream does not understand. 

_ “You are a murderer.” _

Nightmare’s voice rises, until it is a shriek, and the words echo around them. 

It is humiliating to show his face and allow tears. Dream only sees them in the dark, and even then, just barely. But this is necessary, and it will let him flee. 

A warm hand cups his cheek, and Nightmare’s breath quickens, like the thrumming footsteps of a fleeing rabbit. He hates himself for it, and pushes Dream’s hand away. Sleep’s gentle web tears before him, and the strings stick to his fingers even as he pulls apart their fragile ‘reality’. Dream steps back to allow him his space, clearly also reeling from Nightmare’s words, and Nightmare slips away. Hateful, aching, and bitter.

* * *

He lies on his back in the dirt, staring up at the ceiling. The world spins around him, and he thanks his Mother that he does not need to eat or drink food to survive for long. In the dark, it does not feel like time has even passed. He could have been out for three hours or three days, and he would have no idea.

Dream’s voice is like a distant bell, quiet and musical, but it is tinged with concern. He definitely does not jolt, because he knows Dream isn’t nearby. He would feel it. It is no surprise to him that after breaking down his boundaries, breaching his  _ privacy,  _ Dream would project himself into Nightmare’s mind as well.

_ “You wouldn’t be in such pain if you’d just accept me.” _

It sends a cold wind through him, and he sits up in a hurry. His aching bones protest, but he stands, unsteady on his feet, and Nightmare scowls at nothing. His mind is whirling.

_ “Think of it.”  _ Dream pleads.  _ “I wasn’t going to fight you, I didn’t want to hurt you, I just wanted for us to go together.” _

He backpedals a bit, because Nightmare and Dream both know that sounds suspicious.  _ “This would not have happened if you just took the apple, Nightmare.” _

Nightmare responds coolly. “I will not submit to death willingly. I have fought too hard in this lifetime to pass easily.”

There is a pause.  _ “Then I will wait for you.” _

Frustration colors his tone. “I don’t want to become a god. Ever. I want my mortality, and I want to die peacefully.”

Dream clicks his tongue, a tic he does when he’s upset at someone. Nightmare grits his teeth at hearing it inside of his skull.  _ “This is unnecessary.”  _ He nearly complains.

“You can take my choice and leave it, or I’ll end it all right here.”

He wouldn’t. He just said he wouldn’t willingly die.  _ “I have not backed you into a corner. There is no need to make such threats.”  _

“Wrong, you have. I have no other choice but to submit, and-”

  
_ “I have given you a choice! I gave you the choice of taking the apple or dying of your own hands at the altar, so that we might become one!” _

Nightmare raises his voice, the cry erupting from his throat. “Don’t interrupt me! Will you just listen to what I’m saying, to what the fuck you’re saying?”

Dream’s voice becomes louder.  _ “We could have so much better! Do your feet not ache from working in the fields? Do you not remember all the times we’ve had to save up for the winter, how afraid we were that we could run out of wood or money -” _

The curl of his words is sharp and visceral. “You are deaf. The work paid off, we were fine as we were, and we were fine because we were  **together** **_._ ** ”

There is silence.

“Don’t you remember? You said it like that. We were sitting by the fireplace, and the fire was almost out.” Nightmare digs his hands into Dream’s sentimental side and  _ twists _ . His voice becomes sad, soothing, but he does not feel any of it. He refuses to feel guilty for what he is doing, because it is for him, and it is for the life that he has fought hard and won. 

“It was so cold, and our breaths came out in puffs, but you held me and I held you as the moon rose, and we slept on the ground in our blankets.” Nightmare softens, his words creeping into Dream’s emotions. 

“Do you forget the way we woke the next morning? I baked for us, and we ate peacefully, and laughed together despite the cold.”

_ “Nightmare.” _ There is a sting in the way he says Nightmare’s name, pleading, on the verge of tears. He does not fall to it. Nightmare knows that Dream can be as manipulative as him. He does not let it grasp him by the neck, does not acknowledge the emotion that wells up in him, and he continues to build his fortress.

No one will betray him again. 

_ “I did this because of that.” _

All living creatures, Nightmare dispassionately thinks, must be so crafty. 

_ “I want you to be safe. You are my world. I need you.” _

He is cruel and possessive and insane, the roots whisper. They curl over his toes and up his ankles to take place at his knees. They bloom little blue flowers, and he presses his face into his sleeve. 

_ “I know you must hate me now,”  _ Dream whispers.  _ “But I still love you, Nightmare. I would never hurt you.” _

But you did, Nightmare thinks, lost in a dark maze. You’ve already hurt me so much.

Nightmare remains awake, though his body begs him to return to sleep, so that it can heal. He lets the roots grow wildly and search the cave for water, and as they grow thick and begin to cover him, he does not fight it.

_ “I will wait for you. A thousand years, if you need it, all the space in the world. And then, I will make the hard decisions for you.” _


	3. reconciliation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's a time skip between the second chapter and this chapter mainly because i did not feel like writing all the character development over the course of actual centuries
> 
> just know dream and nightmare argued a lot and it was an uphill battle for sure

Almost a thousand years pass. 

Dream goes to sleep, and Nightmare does not rest. 

The wounds heal, and he does not find the need to resummon spider legs to run with. 

Instead, he hides from society. He is a ghost, a myth, and eventually nothing but an idea. When he needs shelter, he adopts a new face. When he craves food, he makes his own. If he wishes for company, then he masks himself, adopts a new persona; a new identity, and ventures out tentatively. Nearly a thousand years of knowledge is nearly enough to satiate his cravings, and apparently annoy the hell out of his brother, who takes to lingering in the back of his mind like a symbiote while he rests. 

They rarely argue now, centuries later, and neither bring up that subject from so long ago. Before, they would quarrel, and Nightmare’s home would be in a state of disarray from his rage and Dream’s crackling magic, but their animosity has smoothed into understanding and wisdom that they wish they had all those centuries ago.

Lots of things have changed, yet between the two of them, some things remain the same.

Things like the way Dream likes his tea, and the way Nightmare props up the pillows on Dream’s side. He makes Dream a mug every day even though it’s a bit of a waste and a hell of a lot of sentiment. He bakes enough for the two of them, and rarely ever does he neglect his garden, the place where they used to spend the most time together.

He planted Dream golden flowers, every single yellow flower he could find on his travels. To watch over them, there was a tall apple tree, with roots that were cast from Nightmare’s body.

Nightmare stares out the window at the garden. 

Thin, but flexible branches sway in the breeze. His apple tree was in full bloom, and it was beautiful. ( _“Apple blossoms,”_ Dream whispers. They enjoyed picnicking together beneath the flowers, back when they shared a home.) 

Nightmare stared at it, and he knew that the tree would bear fruit soon.

He suddenly feels cold, because although they have talked everything out - forced to, being in the same mind for so long - he does not know what that tree will grow. Back in their sanctuary, the fruit their tree bore were not numerous, and they always buried the apples right back beneath the roots. His tree blooms well, with many more flowers. They are all blue.

Freezing digits dig into the hardwood of his little dining table meant for two, and there is the phantom sensation of warmth over the back of his hand. Like someone placing their own hand over his.

Did it mean anything? In all his research, he never found anything about their origins, their story. Did this mean his time was coming? Was it an omen? Would he die and become one with Mother, or with his brother? Would there only be rusted apples for him to eat? 

_“It’s been a thousand years, Nightmare.”_

He bristles.

“Dream.”

_“Nightmare.”_

The warmth leaves, and Nightmare is left colder than he ever was before. He shudders, and then finds himself suspended in disbelief. No, he wouldn’t. They came to an understanding. They had a truce.

“Dream?”

There is no response.

  
  


Somewhere, in the middle of an apple orchard, full of golden apples - a marble statue becomes bone once more, adorned by vines and daffodils. 

Dream takes a deep breath, and he opens his eyes. 

“Nightmare.”

**“Dream, there you are. I thought…”**

“Do you fancy a chase?”

**“What?”**

“Let’s play a game, Nightmare.”

**“Okay, that’s just ominous for no reason.”**

“I am not being ominous, I’m asking you a simple question.” Dream brushes the vines off, and gently picks a daffodil off of his clothing. The tatters fall apart at his hands, and he clicks his tongue. “That tree could mean your last year of life, and while you’ve led a very nice, fulfilling nine hundred and ninety-nine years, I want to spend time with you if that’s the case.”

**“You spent time with me like every single birthday. And almost every day.”**

“I have, but not in person.”

  
  
  


Nightmare’s mouth parts, and then clicks shut.

“Well fuck,” he says.

_“I don’t understand how you managed to pick up the crudest language possible so easily in your nine hundred years. Exclusively the curse words.”_ Dream sighs.

“Why chase me now? Didn’t you make that uhh… that promise like….”

The pieces click together. 

“Dream, you sentimental cuck.”

His brother snarks at him as he continues to clean himself off, noting the approach of a stranger. There were fresh bouquets at his feet when he woke, though they didn’t look like they'd been changed in a while. _“I have not had anyone in my entire life. I also would not enjoy a partner at all.”_

Nightmare snorts aloud, which Dream excuses him for. Probably halfway across the globe. 

“You’re almost a thousand, and you’re still a virgin.” Nightmare begins to guffaw, in his huge, empty, weird wizard tower slash mansion. Which is fully equipped with several bedrooms for people who will never stay the night, because he’s gained a reputation as an actual demon with the locals nearby. 

_“There is no shame in being pure.”_

He hacks on his tea, laughing harder. “Whatever man, let’s play tag.”

There’s a slightly tense silence. Nightmare knows the question he will ask before he speaks it, but allows him to ask anyway.

_“Do you want to?”_

After having led so much of his life in seclusion, Nightmare could say he still wants to go on. The apple tree poses a small threat to that, a large variable and uncertainty, but in the case that it is his end, Nightmare wouldn’t be opposed to living with Dream. Rebirth seems like a real pain in the ass, but it’s been a while since he’s seen his brother’s ugly mug. Nevermind the fact that they’re twins.

“Not really,” Nightmare answers honestly. He’s had a long, long time to think about it, much more than what he had before. “But if this really is the end… I don’t know.”

The grass sways in the breeze. This place is peaceful, even if the people who live in the nearby area whisper rumors about him. He can blend in with the crowd, with other monsters and humans, and cast a glamour over himself. But the thought of losing all that, even with how lonely it can be, frightens him.

“Do you think that if the tree makes those apples, I’ll just… stop existing or something? Someone new will take my place?”

Dream doesn’t respond. He’s afraid too, and none of their tomes really suggested this happening. They had little information to work with, and fairy tales are generally vague and suited for one set timeline anyway, like prophecies. It was supposed to go the way Dream wanted it to, centuries ago, but here they were. Still two different people, and now they were oceans apart.

He doesn’t talk for the rest of the day, which is peaceful for Nightmare, but also a little concerning.

When it’s about time for Nightmare to head to bed, he wraps himself in several blankets and surrounds himself in pillows. Finally, he’ll get some fucking sleep. He isn’t sure why he never did, all these years, but some part of him always denied ever being ready. Dream’s going to see him again, soon, though, and he wants to know who to run from in a crowd.

“Hey asshole, goodnight.”

There’s no heat in his words, but Dream still doesn’t reply. 

Dream always replies to him, when he says goodnight. Even when he won’t sleep. But he will sleep, and he’s going to see him soon, so why won’t he say anything?

“Dream?”

_“Nightmare.”_

“Took you long eno-”

_“There is an issue."_

Dream’s warmth returns to him, sweeping him up and heating his shivering bones. He hadn’t noticed how cold his home became without Dream’s presence with him. “Hey, what’s the big deal?”

_“People,”_ Dream whispers. _“They’re trying to take the apples.”_


	4. house guests

Dream awkwardly stands in the grass as a skeleton monster dressed in travel-weary clothing bickers with his entourage.  **“You gotta beat them up or something.”** Nightmare responds, confused but also upset.

“I’m not going to beat innocents for not knowing this is sacred property.” He quietly chides. It is incredibly ironic. “I will simply tell them to leave. I swore to you no more innocents would die at my hand.”   
  
**“Good point, but they’re also trespassing. That’s a whole law right there. This is private property. Owned by like, a god. AKA you. Get their asses.”**

Dream pinches his nose.

One of the skeleton monsters gives him a look, up and down, and Dream feels slightly uncomfortable by their scrutiny. Finally addressing them, he boosts his voice, but not enough to boom or echo in their heads. “Please leave this land, you are not supposed to be here.”

The one who gave him that look, still smiling, promptly denies his request. Dream falters. He was never quite excellent at navigating social situations, especially when he is outnumbered and confronted. “Nah, it’s really pretty here. Plus, you’re a real pretty guy all alone in a forest. What if someone tries to kill ya?”    
  
Dream lets his gaze linger on the pocket knife he swings around his fingers. This one smells of death.

“Leave him alone.” His accomplice admonishes. The one wielding a knife gets a swift thwack to the back of his skull, which throws off the rhythm of his fingers. Dream tries again. “I would ask again that you all please leave. This is sacred land.” Silently, he hopes none of them have taken an apple already. The orchard sings under his feet and around him, and it feels untouched, just… unsafe.

Another monster, this one with a strange smear of ink on his cheek, just laughs in his face. Dream frowns, this time, and his growing discomfort bubbles into anger.   
  
They come into the sacred orchard, Dream thinks. They step onto a sanctuary, onto flowers and treading the grass with disrespect. They ignore his plea, his gentle guidance, and he will show them no mercy. 

Though he swore to Nightmare he would not allow himself senseless violence, this was justified.

His voice is quieter now with his frustration, but it draws all of their attention. It resounds within them all like a bell. 

_ “Leave.” _

On the horizon, the night time approaches.

* * *

Dream quietly screams and complains to Nightmare as he prepares tea for his four new guests. In their… still broken down home. 

There is a lot of plant life growing through the walls and all over the furniture, likely because of the large hole he busted in the roof in a moment of… passion. 

“So,” one of them, ‘Ink’, chirps. “Nice place you got here.”

The knife wielder nods along, aptly named ‘Killer’. The group he came with tried to think of a new name for him, but it really was just the only thing any of them could think of. It was just very on the nose. “Very nice curtains. Great scenery.” His tone borders on mocking.

Dream very carefully does not wrinkle his face at the clearly false compliment, and their thinly veiled attempts at gaining intel. He pours them their tea, and ignores their horrible manners. This is the worst gathering he has ever tended to. Upstairs, the night’s draft howls through the hole in the roof.

“Thank you,” Dream forcibly smiles. 

He also ignores Nightmare’s joking suggestions to just be rid of them all with some illusions and a kick in the arse, because he is curious. There was much that happened outside of Nightmare’s sphere of vision, like the unfortunate birth of these chaotic beings.

They each held an odd quality, Dream found. Two were near empty of true emotion, and one of them… seemed to defy reality itself. The last, he found much concern in, because he was cold like Nightmare, but seemed mystified by the orchard. He did not smell of blood and steel, like Killer, but he felt like decay in Dream’s fingertips. ‘Reaper’.

He sips at his cup of tea. Nightmare was asleep right now. He needed the rest, considering how he’d been awake for literal centuries, and Dream took great comfort in his watchful, though amused presence. 

The dark skeleton leaning against the doorframe watches over his friends much like a hawk. His body language is stiff, and it reminds Dream of a gargoyle, prepped for attack. Clearly, Error didn’t trust him, and Dream was fine with that. He hadn’t taken tea, though, which was rude. 

There’s an awkward silence.

Correction, there was. Ink breaks it again. 

“Soooooooooooooooooooooooooo. Dream.”

Dream looks at him through the darkness, the glow of his eyes cutting through the night. He is very distinctly unnatural, and the air around him feels hot. Dream’s expression, however, is very calm and almost gentle, if not for the slight pinch of his browbones.

Ink feels a little sweaty, if he’s honest. He gives his best smile. “What’s up with the giant, glowing wings?”

His brother’s laughter echoes in his head, and Dream regrets letting them in.

**“To be fair, they just kinda muscled in.”**

Dream’s mouth presses into a thin line. “They are magic.”

“That’s a little obvious.” The one leaning against the doorframe snorts. Dream tries to reign in his irritation. “Why do you have them?”

“I am afraid that is personal information.” He gently replies, carefully sipping his tea. He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath to enjoy the brew, and clear his mind of his unsavory company. Yes, they would leave by the day, he would be sure of it. Then, the chase.

Killer leans over to Ink, passing a few coins. Dream curiously notes they are of gold, and not copper or nickel like that of trade in the city. “Do you… travel?” He tentatively asks.

One of them stifles a snicker. Dream stifles his urge to choke them. Senseless displays of violence were rude. He could smother them in their sleep, surely.

“Yes, then.” 

“Oh man, he has no idea.” Ink wheezes.

Nightmare bristles a little in the back of his mind.  **“We’ve been around for a thousand years. I think we'd have a wonderful idea.”** Dream’s teacup clicks against its modest saucer. The set was from the neighboring village, and they ventured far for this one. The one they had before was wooden, carved messily by Nightmare. He hates them for touching it. Only he and his brother were supposed to use it. 

His cup is empty. “I believe I will retire for the night.” He demurs, ever the image of the perfect host. He even smiles at them. “There should be a village nearby. They have lodgings there.”

“Have you any query, I would not mind answering. I will be upstairs.”

He sweeps up the steps before they can ask anything, because he is sick of being interrogated. Goodness, how many words could you spill before the truth came out? He did not want to be known, he wanted to just exist. Nevermind the fact that some of his clothes were falling apart from being a literal thousand years old, that was embarrassing. He was wearing a spare robe one of them just happened to whip up out of nowhere. Ink was generous, certainly, but how did he spirit a full bundle of fabric from his pocket?!

Before he can close the door, one of them calls from downstairs. “Hey, would you mind if we just sleep outside?” 

Dream silently weeps for isolation. “I would greatly prefer you simply travel to the village. I would guide your way, but I must admit that I am quite tuckered out.” He goes to close the door again, but someone’s foot stops him. He stares at it, and then looks at the smiling man from before. 

Killer chuckles quietly.

The skeleton comes in close, and Dream leans back slightly. He can feel Nightmare’s sudden discomfort, and his silence perturbs Dream more than a stranger invading his personal space. He regrets having de-summoned his wings, because surely, they would blind him by now, if they were as bright as Nightmare said. 

“Dream.” The stranger tests his name. He looks away from Killer’s empty eye sockets, and he feels them searching. Downstairs, he knows that his accomplices are watching closely, though the conversation continues. Their volume has abated, and he grows in discomfort.

“You must have gotten tired from standing so still for so long.” 

The mock sympathy drives Dream out of his thoughts, and his eyes snap to Killer’s, who squints a bit after being targeted by him. He knew. He found Dream, while he was in his other state. His magic flares a bit, and Nightmare stirs anxiously.  **“That’s awkward.”** He remarks, the humor drained from his voice. 

_ Please be quiet,  _ Dream inwardly sighs. His arms are beginning to prickle with sprouts, and he brushes the glowing leaves off. Killer gives no hint he’s following the motion, as his eye sockets are barren of light. 

A pale hand on Killer’s shoulder pulls him away from Dream, and with frank relief, he wordlessly slips away inside of their room. The door clicks shut, though it creaks a bit, and he pettily locks it. Outside, Reaper speaks with Killer in hushed whispers, and the house is quiet. 

He stares up at the moon, and then at their bed. It’s still the same as it was before, and it brings him a small sense of comfort. He feels too hot, though, too warm and sweaty, and his arms prickle and prickle more with sproutlings. Dream cannot keep brushing them away, because he is far too nervous, and he needs to calm down.

**“Hey.”** Nightmare’s voice breaks through the turmoil.  **“Why don’t you just sit down for a bit, and then we can think of a way to break you out of here?”** **  
** **  
** _ Unfair.  _ Dream shudders, and the sprouts grow along his back and his ribs, clustering the areas where his wings would be. They stall at the sound of Nightmare’s words. He follows Nightmare’s suggestions to take deep breaths, though he doesn’t need to, and they fall away. 

_ You are far too good at calming someone down. _

**“I got a lot of practice in, y’know?”** Nightmare jokes. It falls flat, and Dream collapses onto the mattress with a flop. It creaks noisily, and Dream makes a noise of dissent.

He continues to look out into the night, wishing he could just escape, fly away, but even with the moon near full, he could not leave. Not to leave the orchard unguarded, not when the night would still strike him down. Nightmare let his longing crash against him, and he felt the cool phantom sensation of his arm brushing against Dream’s own. As if they were lying there together, side by side. 

Traitorously, his eyes water a bit.

Nightmare, for once, does something smart. He does not mention it.

**“It’s been a while since I’ve been here.”** He hummed.  **“The moss and vines kinda suit it. It looks cool.”**

Dream frowns, and quietly replies, murmuring his answer to avoid being overheard. “There is dust everywhere. I have to clean up.” His brother throws a cold leg over his own, and as a reflex, Dream kicks it - but it doesn’t go anywhere. Nightmare cackles in his mind, but Dream lets himself smile. 

The moment is ruined by someone rattling the doorknob to his room before remembering to knock. Nightmare’s cooling touch escapes, and he is left scalding. Dream sits up with a creak. 

The frown he makes is wiped away as he opens the door. “May I help you?”

Ink grins at him. “Have you rested enough yet?” 

Reaper flicks his head. Apologetically, the taller skeleton smiles at him, much more polite than literally every single one of his friends. “What he meant to ask was, ‘Could you please help us to the village?’”

* * *

Dream leads them through the orchard, wary of strangers and the way they gaze upon the golden fruit with interest. The robe that Ink gifted him billows behind him as he sweeps through the trees, asking that his guests not touch any of the trees or try to pick the fruit. He feels his arms wrap with vines as one of them fingers a knife, sharp wariness sliding through his ribs like a blade.

“The orchard is beautiful.” Reaper remarks, his voice low. Dream dips his head in acknowledgement, ethereal under the moonlight. “Thank you,” he utters. “I have spent my life here, and I nurture the fruit.” 

Error’s heavy boots remind him of the hunters that once chased Nightmare to this very orchard, and they put him on a further edge. Around them, the forest reacts to his unsteady magic, the grass moving in preparation and the branches creaking. He can see flowers beginning to bloom beneath his bare feet, and he stifles them, though he is certain some have already noticed his nervous magic. 

“Do the apples do anything?” Ink curiously eyes the golden blooms as they trail after Dream’s footsteps. He leaves a glowing path behind him, like fireflies hidden in the grass. “I’ve never seen an orchard of golden apples.” 

Dream tenses minutely, and Error’s eyes narrow. Killer’s sharp grin slides closer to the edge of a knife. “Only for a special few people.” He manages. 

“That’s a bit vague.” Ink twirls a paintbrush between his fingers as they walk, taking in the scenery to paint later. “What kind of criteria is that?”

“The kind for only two specific people.” Dream’s tone grows slightly more snappish at that, and silence takes over the travelling group.

Slowly, he comes to a stop, noticing the slightly shorter line of grass beyond the sacred land. He does not toe the line, but moves aside, gesturing further into the woods. Dream gives Reaper and Error the directions to the village, who seem most mature and responsible of the group, 

Appreciatively, Ink stares at him, also abandoning all social grace. He really was a pretty guy. Gorgeous enough to be set in stone. His bones literally glowed in the moonlight, and although you couldn’t directly look in his eyes, he was a work of art that moved like a ghost. His eyes followed the slender slope of his neck and the plant life that grew from cracks in his arms. 

Killer nudges him as they stall near Dream, while he chats with Reaper.

“Admiring the artwork?” 

“I sure am.” 

Dream casts them a slightly uncomfortable look while Nightmare groans in his head.  **“I think you should really just leave now.”** Cold hands press against his shoulder.  **“We’ve done enough for them. Like, way more than you should’ve had to.”** He continues to ramble, adding to the background noise in the forest.

Reaper’s voice breaks his gaze from the snickering duo. “We are very thankful for your hospitality.” 

**“They’d better be.”**

Golden eyes slide over to empty eye sockets, and Dream is reminded of Killer’s proximity. In contrast, Reaper seems to creep around the edges of his personal space, wavering close but never enough to reach out and touch. At first, he thought it polite, but Reaper avoided his fingers even when offered tea.

Dream’s shoulders lax slightly, and he tries to brush off the various times that his company made him anxious. Nightmare fusses quietly.

Unsure, Dream allows Reaper a small smile. “I am sure the village will receive you well.”

The taller man’s posture slumps slightly, but he clasps his hands together. Error hovers just off to the side, arms crossed. Dream dislikes the way he stares so intently at him, as if waiting for him to lash out. Distantly, he wonders if this was how the villagers scrutinized Nightmare.

“I am sorry for any discomfort we may have caused you.” Near one of the trees, Error snorts.

His thought process stalls, and Dream looks into Reaper blankly. He was truly apologetic, even a little embarrassed. Even far taller than him, Reaper humbles himself by making his body language passive. His resolve wavers.

Dream looks away, at the gleaming apples and through the trees to the village. “It’s alright. I’m sure they meant no harm.” 

Reaper winces a little, casting a glance over his shoulder at Error, who shrugs. Reaper was the one who handled most of the social norms and conversation, being the most ‘normal’ out of all of them. What was he to do if his two accomplices offended a god in his private sanctuary?

“Is there anything we can do for you for your hospitality?”

Dream pauses.

Nightmare makes a questioning noise.

_ I’m going to do something stupid. _

**“Oh fuck yeah. About time.”**

_ No, it will be incredibly petty. _

**“Right, right, but when have you not been?”**

Dream’s animosity is enough to make Nightmare cackle again.  **“Do it! Do it! Fuck with them, Dream!”**

“I do not have anything I truly require.” Dream begins, the unsaid ‘but’ already trailing at the end of his words. He avoids looking at Reaper, casting his gaze up at the moon. It casts the slightest shadows upon his shoulders, which draw Reaper’s attention briefly, before he looks at Dream - following the line of his neck to his jawline, past his slightly lonely expression to the near full disk in the sky.

**“Hey wait a second-”**

He can already feel Error’s narrow eyes glowering at him from across the clearing, as if sensing what’s about to happen and bracing in preparation. 

**“Hey hey hey Dream wait no-”**

“Do you fancy a game?” 

Reaper knows of playing games with deities. He knows first hand what kind of chaos it can lead to, the madness and destruction, and he opens his mouth to deny. Unfortunately, Ink and Killer live for all three of those.

“Hell yeah!” Ink crows.

Dream smiles.

In the shadows, Error sighs in exasperation, as their group is dragged on yet another long-winded journey.

* * *

Nightmare sits up in his obstinately large bed and stares out the window. He’s taken to sleeping through the morning and into the late afternoon, when the sun is not so strong. 

“They’re already on their way here.” He mutters, rubbing one of his eyes. 

_ “Of course they are.”  _ Dream smugly responds.  _ “I would pick only the best.” _

“I literally cannot believe you’d choose to send some random people on a quest to capture me and bring me back to the orchard.”

_ “You obviously have some objections to me doing so.” _

Nightmare sputters as he gets out of bed, sticking on some soft slippers and shuffling to his unnecessarily luxurious bathroom. He glares at his reflection, where he can see Dream transposing an image of himself over his shoulder to further drive home how incredibly smug he is about all of this. 

His brother radiates pure light, which, luckily, does not burn his eyes off when it’s only an illusion. “You really could have just… I don’t know, let me walk back to you. I could take a plane or something.” 

Dream waves his hand like a snobbish Victorian noble, an era he took great interest in observing when it came by. Pouring an English accent into his voice and crossing his arms, he turns his nose up at the mirror.  _ “Nonsense, brother. You have made yourself so comfortable here. Additionally, it would be the perfect divine retribution for a pile of strangers who’ve waltzed upon sacred property.” _

He snorts at that, splashing his face with water and brushing a few stray leaves off of his face. “So, how long was I asleep?”

_ “Oh, you know.” _

“I don’t, actually, know.”   
  
_ “Long enough for them to find you.” _

A familiar voice calls out from the front hall, where a short figure has kicked in Nightmare’s grand double doors with all the glee of a travel-worn rogue at a bar. “Yoo-hoo! Strange moon man! Spider boy!” Footsteps tread and echo around the mansion.

Nightmare glowers into the mirror, hissing at his brother. “How much did you tell them about me?” Dream shrugs.  _ “Their journeys would be boring without some tales. Fortunately, one of them spirited me a phone to communicate with.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rag tag dnd party of reaper ink error and killer on the go


End file.
